


This World Is Burning // We Are The Flames

by Archangel7, tangledinfairylights



Series: Kingdoms & Empires [2]
Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Gay Panic, Hermitcraft Season 3, Magic, Multi, Nursery Rhyme References, Ren No, Ren No TM, Royalty, Secret Relationship, Shapeshifting, Souls, biffa is obsessed with manpower, blame archie, blame tangled, enjoy, everyone is a little fucked up, wels is fucking traumatised, xB sighed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27311458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archangel7/pseuds/Archangel7, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangledinfairylights/pseuds/tangledinfairylights
Summary: A kingdom of rulebreakers, with solidarity a value they honour most, before everything else.An empire trying their hardest to find refuge, desperate to do anything for their own survival.When an unexplainable form of magic struck, would both parties be able to make it out alive? Would friendship and camaraderie come to rescue as the tales foretold, or would everyone fight for themselves in panic, ignoring who's a lover, who's a mentor, who's a best friend? Would stacks upon stacks of gold help stopping the world from burning, or would they lay forgotten, the pride it upheld falling down to ashes?Would King Xisuma and Emperor Ren do what's best for everything that had lost control,or would their affiliations, alongside them, fall down?
Relationships: Charles | Grian/Mumbo Jumbo, Cubfan135/GoodTimesWithScar (Video Blogging RPF), Etho/Daniel M. | VintageBeef, Natalie Arnold/Viktor | Iskall85, and others, xBCrafted/hypnotizd
Series: Kingdoms & Empires [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930663
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	1. Raven, Won't You Sing A Happy Song?

Fates, as merciful as they were, cared not for whether a hero was ready.

There’s a heavy weight when Fate chose you to be The One. Be it a hero. An Heir. Or a King. When you bear the world on your shoulders, there’s nothing left to say except a soft whisper of  _ good luck.  _ When responsibility arrived below your very feet, the only thing you could do was to spread your wings, no matter how frail, and tuck responsibility under their warmth. 

This is a tale about heroes. Those who had tried everything they could, those who wished for anything but a status and a responsibility, those who had loved, those who had lost, those who had found the hero’s life to not be quite the fit… and so on.

Meet King Xisuma Void of Hermition.

Upon first glance, the stiff, prim, and proper King seemed furthest away from the type to cause chaos and riot, but if there’s anything the people know about Hermition, it’s how they pride themselves on going against the conventional.

An agglomeration of three major kingdoms marked the Western area of their region. Mindcrack, known for their revolutionary, extensive trade networking systems; The Renpire, the conservative, traditional empire with gold marking every single material they own; and Hermition, a kingdom for the losers, a kingdom no one would ever voluntarily join.

Magical beings, daughters of witches, men who love other men, even the poorest of peasants were just a few of the rather controversial people King Xisuma had given shelter to in his kingdom. “It was for the legacy,” he’d say, “Generik’s legacy. He built these walls over the value of acceptance and I will do my best to keep it that way.”

They’re a mysterious group. Always isolating themselves from economic trade and political discussions, despite having a political history with Mindcrack; it all laid forgotten once Generik stepped down from the throne. No one had ever seen any member of the Hermition leave their seemingly endless castle compound; except for the rather scary Head of Foreign Affairs. Or the magical gardener boy going shopping — he wasn’t even royalty, anyway.

But Xisuma was a strict one, albeit not for the law — he abided by his own rules with great loyalty. One of which, also being the one red flag that showed how disgraceful this kingdom was, was his refusal to find a Queen to help with his affairs. This, of course, sparked gossip among the peasants — what else can they do for entertainment, really — about Xisuma’s odd personal rules. 

Rumours sparked around, the most infamous one being how the King slept with his Personal Guard. Really, peasants? Conspiring over a man whose personal life you barely know’s relationship for entertainment? Get a hobby!

Hermition had one sole heir. 

Prince Impulse, Xisuma’s maternal half-brother. Just like the Hermition legacy, the people had a lot to say about him.  _ Technological genius  _ , some would say, in awe at every little contraption and machine he had contributed to Hermition. 

Others scrunch their noses at the idea of him being the Heir.  _ Too young _ , they’d say, shaking their heads.  _ Shame the King doesn’t have a wife. I’d love to propose him a hand in marriage, but of course he won’t pay any mind.  _

Among those people who loved sticking their noses into royal business, a handful truly personally knew the Prince, and they all had the same commentary to throw into the pool: he suffered from a concerning lack of item management skills. Unlike the freakily organised King, Impulse was hopeless in trying to keep even his  _ bedroom  _ neat.

After Xisuma and Impulse’s mother’s death, the Prince lost a mentor figure he’d looked up to all these years. He was never a mother’s boy - but damned if he didn’t admit his admiration to Xisuma, no matter how absent. It was a loss of X as much as it was their mother’s. Because His Majesty Generik, struck by grief after his ex-spouse’s death, stepped down, leaving Xisuma to take care of Hermition alone.

So, gone was the big brother (or, was it really a big brother when you’re twelve years apart?) figure Impulse had. Because life stood in the way like a thorned hedge. Xisuma had enough kingdom issues to worry about, issues normal people his age couldn’t even dream up — and any possibility of quality sibling time disappeared.

Thus when an eccentric bearded man in an ebony —  _ what a rich choice of dye colour —  _ suit knocked on their doors, talking a mile a minute with the most  _ interesting  _ of vocabularies, forgetting his own name at times — they accepted him without a second thought. 

Spumwack. 

He wasn’t a stranger to the royal family, since his husband worked for the King himself. Truthfully, he was the only choice they had. But Generik accepted him all the same, with a chuckle hidden beneath his beard, as he gave Spumwack an occupation to last a lifetime.

The Royal Mentor.

And — hey! — isn’t it just the most satisfying thing to see your impulsive plan working perfectly? Impulse looked up to Spum so much, upon his desperation for a mentor figure. It was admittedly awkward at first. Opposites, the two of them — with calm, composed, messy Impulse and passionate, barely able to speak fast enough, neat as a pin Spum, but they found they got along just fine. 

From the balcony, Xisuma could see the entire courtyard, from the haystacks next to the mule stables, to the various connecting bridges, with flowering vines draping from their mossy stone supports. A small overgrown fountain with a broken cherub sat in the centre, housing a pair of Grian’s pet birds. Python had once kept the courtyard impeccably clean, completely devoid of vines and moss, but seemingly decided that the overgrown look suited the castle better. It had left the young servants and soldiers more hiding spots for hide-and-seek under the vines and shrubs and seemed to hoard plenty of lost or hidden possessions, but Python’s apprentices seemed to keep him busy enough to not mind the state of the courtyard. 

On the left, at the archery range, he spotted Head Spy Zueljin, better known as Zee. Xisuma's Personal Guard, Biffa, had brought him in for what seemed like eons ago. Zee sat with precarious balance on one of the splintery fences surrounding the mule pen. He watched as Zee laughed to himself, watching xB attempting to adjust Hypno’s grip on his bow. 

Despite xB being the royal healer, he excelled at archery. This spared Zee’s Tuesdays off from Head Spy duties, sending his apprentices to xB for training while he leaned back, spending a few minutes to himself for once. 

Still, Zee was expected to stick with the intels at all times, so he did, watching xB take the position of a trainer at the courtyard. 

He closed his eyes. These rare moments of calm in Hermition were to savour — a faint floral breeze carrying the first brittle orange leaves of the year, a transition from the heat to some winds from the South. Tranquil. With the only sounds in the courtyard being Jevin’s twanging bow, and the clack of arrows hitting the stone wall behind the targets and dummies, Zee was content.

Suddenly, a mule whinnied behind him. It gave him a rough nudge, as if saying “get off my fence!”

“Hey Zee, jackass says it’s your turn,” Jevin called to him, tossing the longbow. Zee fumbled to catch it, nearly sprawling face flat onto the pebble path. The graceful act earned a loud “ _ Ha  _ !” from the two intels watching, finding Zee’s failure most amusing from the wooden connecting bridge overseeing the target range. 

“Shut up, DMAC!” Zee yelled to the wheezing court jester.

DMAC ignored the scold, high-fiving his young, bespectacled, prim and proper colleague, who couldn’t help but give Zee a little chuckle as well.

“You too, Sl1p.” Zee grabbed the longbow with a huff. He squared his shoulders, trying to decrease the sheer amount of embarrassment looming over his crumbling self esteem. “Stop hurting my feelings.”

“And you’re all dressed up for what?” Jevin switched the subject, narrowing his eyes at DMAC’s outfit — all those olive and yellow patchwork pieces with little tinkling brass bells, complete with an extravagant jester hat.

“Flexing,” DMAC replied with a wink. 

“You call that flexing?” Jevin did a flip and pointed at himself with his toes, as if not possessing any bones, showcasing his own grey silk vest with a challenging expression. “I’ll raise you one, DMAC.” 

“Well, Spum loves my outfit, so I think I have the full win.”

Zee sighed. At this point, it’s best to leave the two alone on their clothing flexing competition, with Sl1p yelling insults at both of them. He positioned his longbow, ignoring the bickering around him — it’s just him and the target, a sack of hay shaped like a dummy. 

Breathe.

An arrow pulled back the hemp string. He felt the hardened feathers dig into his fingers. His eyes narrowed, focusing on the target — and the target only. 

Within a second, he let go.

_ Thunk. _

The arrow hit the shoulder of the dummy.  _ Good  _ . It landed slightly off, a bit to the left of his intended target.  _ Bad. _

“Better than Jevin, deer boy,” Hypno smirked. Annoyed with his incompetence, Zee threw the spy a glare, his deer ears twitching indignantly. 

“Hey! I heard that!” Jevin shouted to the two of them, crossing his arms. “You’re just getting an unfair kitty advantage!”

“Maybe you should actually  _ try  _ to hit the target,” xB remarked with a grin. “Poor Etho got his bushes all messed up from your twenty-or-so arrows.”

“Can’t help that you and Hypno are naturals at this,” Jevin huffed. “I got the flexibility, you two got the archery skills, and Zee got an uncontrollable need to drink whiskey—” 

“Hey, hey, hey—” Zee tried to be stern, yet failing to suppress a laugh, “we all know that I’m the brain cells around here.” 

“Brain cells who have an uncontrollable need to—” his words were cut off with a high pitched squeal as Zee whacked him with his bow. 

“Come back here!” 

Jevin scurried away under the connecting bridge to the other side of the courtyard — leaving Zee crossing his arms at his antiques, shaking his head.

Yup. Just your usual Tuesday at Hermition.

Still standing by the target dummies, xB wrapped an arm around Hypno’s shoulder, pulling him close enough to feel his cat ears against his collarbone. Comfort. One thing xB could ever wish to have an abundance of, what with the Fates teasing him all the time — well, they gave Hypno to him, and he showed no signs of leaving. That’s good, at least.

Hypno and Zee were just two of the numerous magical people King Xisuma had offered refuge to at the palace, though shapeshifters only mark a tiny percentage of them — Zee being a roe deer with flowered antlers — something Biffa never let him hear the end of — and Hypno being a black cat. 

“Shapeshifters make good spies,” Xisuma had stated as his reasoning for taking them in when their Head of Foreign Affairs, Doc, had objected. “No one suspects another deer or cat roaming around Hermition.” 

How could one even argue with the steel-headed King?

xB sighed. He rested his head between Hypno’s ears, an act so often repeated, yet never losing its novelty from the very first time they fell in love.

And, no, he hadn’t planned to fall in love with a stray magical shapeshifter he happened to meet at the local tavern. 

But Fate’s weird sometimes, and so here they were, nine years later and secretly married despite Article 6. 

Article 6, one of three of Hermition’s anti-marriage laws ( _ penalty for such high treason will be execution)  _ , or “one of three fucking pieces of absolute bullshit”, as Spum always said. 

When Biffa, who's responsible for recruiting people — whether to enlist in the army, or train as healers, or intels, or apprentices to councilmen, blacksmiths, even gardeners — brought any new people in, he'd make them vow to obey the sixteen Articles. Yet, somehow half of them had managed to break Article 5 — banning marriage for intels — and escape Article 6, the execution order for this treason. 

It was no surprise, really, considering Xisuma was the first of many generations to break Article 4:  _ royalties are to marry their equals, and arranged marriages are encouraged... _

Despite this minimally compromising his manpower, Biffa couldn’t seem to care whether or not they followed the three articles; in fact, he’d proudly declared himself Hermition’s official matchmaker, with DMAC and head strategist Brody helping him wingman potential couples. 

Recently, they had their sights set on a specific Head of Technology; Mumbo Jumbo; and the Head of Infrastructure’s new apprentice, Grian. 

Bdubs and Keralis, Grian’s respective mentor and predecessor, had decided that Hermition’s main trading center needed renovation for efficiency’s sake. So Biffa, Brody, and DMAC jumped on the chance to… give them a few nudges. 

There Mumbo stood, face scrunched with frustration at his currency-exchange system - when he felt a wooden plank hit his shoulder out of nowhere.

He huffed.

_ Of course. _

Grian sat on one of the dark oak support beams on the ceiling, his signature gap-toothed grin beaming as he held another plank over where Mumbo was working. 

“No — Gri, don’t—“

Another plank smacked him right in the nose. 

_ Thanks, Grian. _

“That’s some nice dark oak you got there,” he mumbled, frustratingly red in the face as Grian wheezed. Working with Grian was always unproductive, with his tendency to push buttons at the wrong times and misplace Mumbo’s materials, but he couldn’t resist every time Grian dragged him by the sleeve to show him his newest bird friend or some small redstone contraption he’d somehow figured out. 

_ I managed to do this on my own because I’ve seen you do it so often _ , he’d say, the ray of sunshine he is.

Grian stood up on the support beam. He held his arms out, precariously balancing himself as he walked to the other side of the build. 

“We were planning on using diorite floors at first, but Etho suggested that the white and grey stood out too much against the dark oak,” he said. “Also, diorite gets dirty too easily. So granite it was.” 

Mumbo used every millimetre of his self-restraint to bite back a snarky comment on Grian’s lack of planning skills. 

“You know what diorite reminds me of?” he asked instead.

“What?” 

“Well,” he started, a row of laughter hitting before he’d even said anything, “oh, God, Gri, you have no idea —“ he stopped, trying to control his wheezy laughter.

“Aww, tell me!”

Still unable to get the best of his laughter, Mumbo tried his hardest to take a breath and speak, only to have himself laughing even more.  _ Goodness me.  _ He's acting like the biggest dork ever.  _ In front of Grian. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.  _

“Oh, dude—” he tried, “it reminds me of — of Professor Beak’s poop,” Mumbo managed between wheezes and laughter —  _ and, okay, between a bit of star-struckness as well  _ — “oh, do tell me you can’t unsee that now.”

Grian’s only response was dropping another set of planks on Mumbo’s back. 

“Don’t tell Zee that,” he grinned. “He  _ loves  _ diorite.”

“Look. This is just stupid.”

The morning’s newspaper was slammed in front of Xisuma. He paid no mind, sipping a cup of tea; it was probably just inflation as all the news seemed to be these days. It’s a good thing he insisted for Hermition to be self-sustaining.

“Read it,” an indignant instruction which Xisuma obeyed. Upon first glance at the headline, he chuckled, amused at what their people could get up to.

“Well, they’re not wrong, Biffa,” Xisuma said. “We do sleep together.” 

Biffa snorted. “We’re keeping each other sane. It’s necessary, some nights. Just —“ he glared at the paper— “not the  _ morning news  _ !” 

“Nothing better to report, I say,” X muttered, flipping the pages around. “Yeah, see — inflation again… oh, wait, hang on.”

“What?” Biffa peered over Xisuma’s shoulder, squinting at the newspaper. “Which one are you… oh,  _ no  _ .”

He frowned at one of the smaller articles on the paper, so tiny they were practically fine print — as if unsuspecting readers were  _ meant  _ to brush it off.

_ Reports tell of a strange disease that has been spreading from the South. Medical practitioners have ruled the suspected cause to be a wilder form of rabies. The Emperor of our neighbouring Empire down South, encourages his people to stay calm, claiming to have the situation under control. Neighbouring kingdoms are to cut off from Southern trading until further notice.  _

_ Confirmed cases: 327. Confirmed deaths: 7. _

Biffa rolled his eyes. 

Oh, he  _ knew  _ things had gone suspiciously well for them. He  _ knew _ Hermition relied on luck, above everything else — what with their terrible reputation and rule-breaking tendencies. And, yes, of course something bad was bound to happen — sooner or later. Still, he never really registered that fact until it actually happened, however.

The huge gap between confirmed cases and deaths piqued his interest.

_ So it’s taking a while to kill.  _

Okay, things weren’t as bad as he initially thought.

All he needed was…  _ manpower. We need more manpower  _ . He could visit the markets, go outside for once — and start recruiting from there. Have the Royal Healer prepare a syllabus to teach potential healers. That part was no problem at all — sure, the Hermition peasants loved nothing more than bad-mouthing the kingdom…

But Biffa had multiple tricks up his sleeve, ones Xisuma never found enough appreciation for.

A  _ manager of personalia  _ , he’d jokingly call himself. An expert in finding potential in everyone he met,  _ and  _ experienced in using charm and charisma to get them to do what he expected of them. It’s quite simple, really.

You find their greatest desire and go from there.

Acceptance? Security? Happiness? Tranquility? Biffa was a master in lacing sweetness into his words, promising everyone he’d had an eye on what they’ve always wanted. 

And no one had ever rejected him. Not one. Never.

Which worked perfectly in favour to his greatest ambition of creating the most unstoppable cabinet. Sure, Hermition's being looked down upon. But not for long. As long as Ser Biffa's around, one better bet they would watch as the kingdom grew and prospered. There's  _ nothing  _ a bit of sweet, sweet words can never do, and there's  _ certainly nothing  _ the Hermition council can't do once Biffa's done luring in manpower.

He glanced at Xisuma, who had stared blankly at the newspaper for the past minute, not knowing what to do.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he began, speaking a mile a minute, “don’t worry, X. I have my mind set on the most unstoppable army, and we’ll be fine — I’ll find an array of healers, I’ll make sure nothing crosses our border with the South—“

“Biffa.”

Biffa’s train of thought felt like it had smashed into a wall. 

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

Xisuma sighed. “It’s not worth it,” he said. “We don’t need armies for a plague. Or any new healers, actually.”

He glanced at the window — rustling orange leaves growing louder each day, ringing with the familiar deathly tone every autumn brought upon them. 

“We’ll be frontliners. I know quite a bit with healing as well, I could train our council — it’s nothing foreign from what I inferred from the news. But—” he put the newspaper down, “listen, Biffa.”

He stared right to the Guard’s very eyes, as if challenging him with how calm Xisuma managed to be. 

“Taking newer people in means more risk. It’s not worth it,” he repeated, “we have enough men as it is. Our main focus,” he gave Biffa a sharp nod, “is to keep our people safe. That’s it.”

Biffa stood up with a small sigh.

“You know best, X.”

You see, there weren’t many things Biffa could say he was proud of in Hermition. But if he had to choose anyone or anything in the damned kingdom, he would choose King Xisuma’s council — the one he'd massively helped build up.

As personal guard to the king, he stood by the door as Xisuma held his meetings. Today’s meeting wasn’t much of an important one. X had simply wanted to see his advisors, you see — track their progress and see how everything within the kingdom had been doing.

“...and Keralis is overseeing its renovation,” Bdubs said. “The merchants will be glad to have their main trade centre upgraded.” 

“In addition, we have noticed an increased influx of foreign traveling merchants - most from the North — in the past month,” Doc added over Bdubs’s words. “The trade centre will help organize the increased trade. If you’re good with that, though, X?”

Bdubs cleared his throat loudly before continuing. “Anyway, as I was saying, Sl1p is working with Keralis and Mumbo and Grian on developing an automated currency exchange system that fits the aesthetic of the building—”

“Are you overseeing the apprentices, though?” Doc interrupted.

“And will you let me  _ talk  _ , you old goat?” Bdubs near shouted, throwing his arms up in sheer exasperation. “Mumbo’s overseeing Sl1p and Keralis has Grian.”

“Sl1p is busy these days, huh?” DMAC said. ”I’ve been working with him and Zee on camouflage strategies.” He leaned back on his chair, legs crossed. “That boy’s got a talent for espionage, maybe more than us combined! And he’s sixteen! Oh, man.” 

“God, Sl1p is nothing compared to Grian,” Bdubs sighed. “That kid… I finished a bottle of whiskey in a week.” 

“A week?” Biffa said, smirking. “That’s a long time for a bottle.” 

“Hey!” Bdubs yelled. “Not everyone has Zee’s drinking abilities.” He leaned back and sighed. Biffa couldn’t help but notice how Bdubs’s eyes seemed more dull, missing the usual glimmer. He could only wish Grian won’t take too much of a toll on Bdubs. Can’t have his manpower get decreased by one. 

“Even with whiskey, I don’t know how to handle that kid!” Bdubs continued, rubbing his temples. “Imagine  _ without  _ .”

“Well, a mentor knows what’s best for their apprentice,” Mumbo shrugged. “I don’t think he’s that bad. Seems quite the potential, I should say.” 

“Fine, fine.” 

“You sure Mumbo isn’t too busy ogling your new apprentice, Bdubs?” Doc said. Biffa tried to stop the stupid grin ready to spread across his face, but DMAC glanced up, a knowing smirk on his face — which drew out Biffa’s rare chuckle. 

“Anyway,” X spoke up, presumably to save Mumbo’s face. Assuming Xisuma had any awareness of romance, however, was bold. “Joe, any news?”

Joe shook his head. “Plentiful harvest and beautiful clear blue skies,” he said. “We got that rabies threat round the South border, but I believe they handled it—” 

“Rabies?!” Bdubs near screeched, turning towards Joe. “We haven’t had a case of rabies since we sent Aurey and xB to help the outskirts with… whatever sciencey stuff they did.”

“It’s some rabies-like disease from the South, according to the news,” X mumbled. “If the Southern towns have it handled, we might not want to intervene just yet; they might not appreciate it.” 

He reached for his gavel, to which Biffa quickly reacted to.

“Could we at least get the apothecary’s report on the rabies case, Joe?” Biffa interjected before X could adjourn the meeting. The case count from the morning’s newspaper was worrying enough for Biffa; he wanted to make sure the information wasn’t backlogged, especially from the faraway South. “We’ll run it by xB and see if it’s worth investigating.” 

Joe nodded, giving Biffa an understanding smile. “I’ll request it tonight. We should have it within three days if the weather permits,” he replied. 

X glanced at every member in the council. Worry laced most of their expressions, to which he could only hope their royal healer would be up for the job. 

“Any final questions?” 

As the council shook their heads, X said, “Well, that should be all, then, since we haven’t received any birds at the post—”

As if on cue, an urgent knock was heard. Biffa nearly jumped out of his armour to a guarding position. “State your name and case for entrance,” he said as he had numerous times before, hand resting on his sword hilt. 

“It’s Cleo, and we’ve just received a raven from the… whatever kingdom uses golden seals,” a foreign-accented voice said from the other side of the door. “It seems urgent. It’s addressed for our King and the council.” 

_ Raven? That’s not good. _

_ Those raven-feather letters could only mean one thing: they come bearing bad news. _

“Oh, open the door, Biffa,” Joe sighed. “It’s just Cleo and we all know that.” 

And right he was, for Cleo stood at the door, panting as if she had ran all the way from the birdpost to the councilroom. 

“Come in.”

She couldn’t seem to enter the room fast enough. “I have this.” She shoved the letter into Biffa’s awaiting hand before pausing to catch her breath. “See if you could figure out the address. The ink makes it hard to read.”

Biffa squinted at the letter before setting it on the table in front of Doc and Xisuma. Cleo was right; they seemed to have written the address with molten gold, blending in with the parchment if the lighting wasn’t perfect. However, he did manage to decipher some sentences: _ to our fellow ruler, the King Xisuma Void of Hermition, and to all members of His Royal Council, if it may concern them  _ . 

“Gold ink and gold seal? This is most likely our rich neighbouring kingdom from the South,” Doc said, biting his lip. 

“The Renpire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hallo! we've been working on this fic for forever and we hope you'll sit back and strap yourselves in for the ride. it made us cry so we hope it will make you cry as well. or, well, just me. archie's heartless. they also had the AUDACITY to sleep in on Halloween; the day we're supposed to publish :0  
> \- tangled x
> 
> and hallo from the other half! we started writing this without blood and gore but as soon as I joined tangled was in for a RIDE. I hope this scares you as much as it scared tangled and IM SORRY I HAVEN'T SLEPT ALL WEEK  
> \- archie


	2. All That Is Gold Does Not Glitter

Although no one seemed to leave Hermition’s grand compound, this only seemed to fuel a burning curiosity among the kingdom’s traders and artisans. Were there riches to be found? What if there were mines? Whole civilisations to discover? People were willing to try, despite the common knowledge being that Hermition was simply a barren region. 

Outside of Hermition’s towering walls, one could easily find themselves lost in sheer emptiness. Deserted trade roads from what used to be proof of inter-kingdom relationships before Xisuma isolated themselves — fading carriage wheel carvings, tamped down wild-grown grass and herb patches. Civilisation was sparse, with abandoned cottages and overgrown campfires littering the sides of the roads. 

But, if one knew where to go, they would find themselves in for a treat.

Going right from the entrance gate, to where the wind pointed south. Not too long after — probably a four-day trip — damp fog would start creeping in, crawling over a lone traveller’s skin like spiders on a dewy cobweb — and before they know it, they’re lost. Lost among miles of silver fog greying all the leafless trees and the little dots of white nightshade blossoms. Further down the disappearing path, a crisp, gusting wind enters stage, nipping at any exposed fingertips or ears. 

Eternal cold. 

If they persisted, however; and after three more days of venture, they would start to see tiny houses looming to view — not hay and mud, no — _true red bricks_ , which went way beyond any Hermition peasant’s wildest imaginations.

And — look up!

Grand as ever, the looming royal towers. Not even the fog could diminish the glint of gold scattered around the blackstone buildings; be it a mere door knocker or entire roofs. Gilded blackstone was a prized currency in Hermition, yet entire _castles_ were built of the material in this prosperous empire. 

Bustling miner’s towns, riverside fisherman villages and vast farms with golden fields of wheat and churning waterwheels had helped build the largest, richest kingdom in the region. 

Welcome, traveller, to the Renpire.

* * *

Iskall stood behind the door to Stress’s study, a stuffed felt butterfly on one hand and the gilded knocker in the other. He lifted the cold handle, letting it hit the knocker plate. 

“Honey? It’s me,” he called out, quickly making sure he wasn’t grinning like a fool as she opened the door. 

Stress peeked out from behind the door, dark brown hair disheveled and dotted with several wilted chamomile blossoms. The Empire’s Head Researcher had been having it rough lately, what with the outbreak and everything else. It was as if she hadn’t slept in a week, making Iskall sigh at the sight of the dark circles under her eyes. 

“What is it, love?” she asked, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her chapped lips. 

“Lucy wanted me to give you this.” Iskall held out the butterfly plush. It was roughly sewn, to put it nicely. Stitches stuck out, messy splotches of pinks and purples, covering the otherwise beige fabric — but the effort was clear enough to make Stress’s eyes light up. 

“Aww, Lucy,” she took the plush, putting it on her head. “Did she make this?”

“Yep. With my help,” he winked. “She wanted to use magenta — which meant I went and bribed Ren a bit for dye. Didn’t really work out.”

Stress chuckled. “Well, it’s a masterpiece nonetheless,” she remarked, warm brown eyes shining. “Where’s the artist? I need an autograph right now!”

“Oh, she’s off to her study,” Iskall laughed, his cheeks hurting from grinning but he couldn’t complain at all; watching his wife smile made it all the more worth it. “And yes, I told her to shower after finger-painting. You can always count on me.”

He quickly slipped _his_ hands in the trouser’s pockets, not wanting the pink-stained fingers to be visible. 

“Anyway,” he coughed. “What have you been up to?”

Stress’s expression darkened within a second, averting Iskall’s eyes. “A lot. None of which are good.”

Iskall frowned. “Is it the… strange disease still?” he asked, biting his lip. 

Stress nodded, gesturing to Iskall to follow her into her office. Papers were strewn all over the floor, hastily scribbled in red — _red? Since when was gold no longer the standard?_ — ink. A few packs of herbs, in brown paper packets and labeled with black ink, were stacked on her desk. No signs of success. Nothing. Nor were any signs that Stress had been getting any rest.

“Causes of death were all over the place,” she sighed, handing him a crumpled paper. Iskall squinted at the red ink as she continued, “Suicide, infection, blood loss, just to name a few.” 

_Cause of death: gangrenous infection on seemingly self-inflicted scratches._

“That’s… concerning, yes,” Iskall managed. He absently fiddled with the gold-based prosthetic replacing his left eye, forehead scrunched as he set the paper back down on Stress’s desk. 

“We might need to arrange another meeting from Ren,” Iskall said. “Last time we sent that knight boy to survey the scene, but we won’t know until he returns tonight. I don’t think it’s going to do us good, however,” he whispered, “the knight’s been going mega mad.”

He forced a reassuring grin — he’s supposed to be the royal family’s ray of sunshine, yet even a simple smile felt heavy. “Another discussion with Ren and Kryllyk is definitely necessary. We’ll get through this, okay? As long as we all do our parts—”

“Kryllyk?” Stress narrowed her eyes hesitantly. “Are you sure he’s going to be up for it?”

Iskall smiled, albeit the slightest twitch forming on the corners of his mouth. “Hey, he’s my brother,” he said, patting her shoulder stiffly. “I have to have faith in him.”

Stress sighed. “If you have faith in him, then I will as well.”

* * *

The wind began to howl when the wolves finally quieted, soaring through broken cottage windows and slamming creaking wooden shutters in a rhythmic, echoing applause. 

Wels drew his navy blue cloak tighter around his shoulders. The first of the brisk autumn winds sank into his skin. _Sharp, freezing cold._ Fallen brown leaves squished under his boot — no matter his efforts, a phrase from the Emperor rang through his head.

_Fear smells like rotting dead leaves_ , Ren had once told him. 

He looked up. Blinking as he were, he failed to gain any sight — for a dense fog hung undisturbed around him, its silver droplets barely pierced by the full moon’s yellow glare. 

Death — fear smelled like the death of full farming villages and empty taverns with ringing rhymes still stuck to their rough brick walls. One of which, The Hound and Stag, served as a solace for Wels on this chilly night, a tavern he’d never paid much attention before — now as if telling him _ha! Guess who’s desperate for warmth now, boy?_

Its rusty swing sign creaked as another rush of wind attempted to steal away Wels’ cloak, the clasp pulling dangerously tight around his neck. 

_Squelch, squelch_ , went the mouldy foliage. Wels did a double take at the tavern. Always filled to the brim with drunken wandering traders, clicking gilded dice and gambling gold coins and a bustling fireplace casting golden shadows onto the next-door store walls. 

In his distorted sense of reality from the sheer numbing chill, he could almost hear the minstrels striking up another tune — a familiar, quick-paced fiddle and flute song with a chorus of voices. 

_“That’s the way the money goes. Pop! goes the weasel.”_

Wels stopped in his tracks. 

_Is he really doing this?_

_Yes. Yes, he is._

So he opened the door to the Hound and Stag tavern. A shudder began creeping down his spine as the wooden entrance creaked, as if never once taken care of.

_“Every night, when I go out…”_

The voices grew louder, inching out of the tavern’s door and lacing through the surrounding fog. _“The weasel’s on the table.”_

He started to back away as another tinkling voice, sharp and high as a pig’s slaughter squeal, continued — “ _take a stick and knock it off!_ ” 

For a moment, he could hear laughter, but not the loud barks of gambling traders or drunken wheezing. It was, rather, a series of little chuckles, dancing around his mind as he gulped and took a large step back. 

“ _Pop!”_

His boot heel stubbed something hard. Wels nearly jumped ten feet in the air as his heart leapt into his throat. Behind him, he could hear the crack of crumbling bones. Instincts led him to reach for his sword, but his hand froze mid-way as he turned around to look at what he had kicked. 

The Knight was used to dead bodies.

Their blank, glassy stares gazing into a distant world beyond the living’s knowledge, their pale veiny skin and the contrasting crimson and flaking brown blood residue clinging to their cheeks — albeit not something he _liked_ to see, but rather they never frightened him much. 

But the body in front of him _grinned._

Grinned, with an eternal red smile slit into their cheeks. Pale blue eyes stared up at him, curled into crescents with a flash of fear, moonlit and tear-streaked, forever frozen in its gaze. Wels stood petrified for what seemed to be forever.

Eventually, he shook off his trembling heel from its deteriorated ribcage. An uncontrollable shudder spread down to his toes as he took a shaky step in the other direction. He wanted to scream, but his pride pushed down the faint whimper ready to escape his throat; he couldn’t take his eyes off the body, _it’s just a damned corpse with some mutilated—_

Suddenly, with a muffled crack, the body’s jaw fell open, revealing a small, scarred periwinkle creature clawing its way out from between the corpse’s curled, bloodless lips.

That’s it.

Wels _screeched_.

The sharp sound rang and fused with the shrieking laughter, escaping the corpse’s collapsed lungs. That odd, periwinkle creature grinned up at him — _an identical grin to the corpse_ — while waving its tiny clawed fist to attack.

He unsheathed his sword and began to raise it, but a flash — and it was gone. 

A faint flutter sounded to his right. Wels whipped around, sword at the ready — and again — _a grin_ , and that eerie laughter, haunting him within the silvery fog.

And it’s gone. 

“Show yourself!” he yelled, boots digging into the soft ground. The wind picked back up its pace, swishing his cloak around his ankles. 

The only reply was a little giggle. 

_“Smile more,”_ a voice echoed in his head.

A small, grinning face popped up in his view for a split second, but the split second was all Wels needed to shove his sword forward, effectively slicing through the scarred creature. A screech, ringing in his ears, and any trace of the creature disappeared. 

And silence.

Wels stood there, mind frozen, taking in the stillness of the night around him. Even the wind halted, and the wolves in the distance took a break from their howls. As if time _stopped_.

Ren and Iskall had wanted a report on the conditions of their main trading city. _What city was there left?_ Wide-eyed corpses in decaying wooden cottages, gold coins strewn among rotting fruits and salted meats and honeycakes from merchant wagons. _Gold, what did gold mean to dead men? Death wasn’t deterred by piles of glittering riches._

They had to leave. 

He found his horse where he’d tied her reins to a post. She neighed, tamping the mushy ground with her hoof as another wolf howl echoed through the night. 

And, oh, how fast he rode through the night, a frigid wind rushing through his ears and stinging his teary eyes as he urged her on. Her brown mane whipped his face, but he barely felt it. 

Even as they shot through the countryside at record speed with the wind whooshing in his cold-numbed ears, Wels could hear a faint voice, a whisper at the back of his mind. 

_“...goes the weasel.”_

* * *

“Your Imperial Majesty. Your Imperial Majesty.”

Ren looked up from his paperwork. 

_Ser Wels_? 

His eyes widened at the sight of the knight. _Oh no._ His blond hair was tousled, with some dead leaves stuck in the stray strands, and his complexion was drained, paler than snow. Barely seemed to register his environment, for his blue eyes were unfocused, blinking rapidly at nothing whatsoever as his hand trembled on the door handle. 

_Is he ill?_ Ren immediately thought. _Oh, no — did the boy contracted rabies?_ Maybe he shouldn’t have sent him to the village. Knights were trained and built for tough conditions, but they’d clearly underestimated the power of this outbreak. 

Concern formed in his chest. Ren stood up, touching Wels’s forehead with the back of his hand, to which Wels barely complained about or gave any sarcastic remarks — odd. Quite unlike Wels to not say anything. Yet the boy’s silent, blank eyes staring in no general direction… this wasn’t the courageous Knight Ren knew. Whatever was the matter? He looked like he’d seen some form of poltergeist!

At least he didn’t seem to be physically ill. 

He’s just… ice-cold. 

_Oh, he should never send this boy to such a task ever again._

“Falling down,” Wels muttered, startling Ren. His blue eyes darted around frantically as he covered his ears with shaking hands. “Falling down! I know! Stop it!”

“Wels —“

“Weasel… bridge… _smile more…_ ”

Ren gulped. He gripped Wels’s cold armoured shoulders, trying to shake some sense into the boy.

“Wels," he said, his voice stern, "look at me. What happened?” 

Wels stood shivering for a moment, his steel armour squeaking like a horde of little scurrying mice. Pale yellow moonlight highlighted the fear dancing in his glazed eyes as he slowly lifted his gaze to meet Ren’s. The colour gradually returned to his face as he took a deep shuddering breath, lips trembling.

“Your— your Imperial Majesty… we need to leave. Please,” the words tumbled out of his mouth in a jumbled mess. “We leave or I leave. Either way, I’m not staying here a _second_ longer.”

His words slapped Ren in the face like the brisk Southern breeze. 

“ _What_?” he stepped backwards, trying to find the desk behind him for support. “Leave? But Stress’s research showcased that -”

“No, _Ren_ .” Tears were glistening on Wels’ cheeks, tugging at Ren’s heartstrings. “The research—” he managed through hiccups — “the research means _nothing_. She’s — she’s working with variables and — and potions and — um — samples. This? It’s pure Dark magic. I would know, and I’m — I’m not — I’m not even magical.”

Ren crossed his arms with a squeaky huff. Even if he wanted more information, he knew he’d never get any. Wels seemed determined to stay silent, with whatever _weasel_ thing stealing his focus from Ren. And determined, yet again, to leave this place.

The kingdom he’d lived in and helped improve for _decades_! All thrown away just because some form of outbreak?

“Maybe we could —“ Ren tried, but Wels cut him off.

“No, Ren.” 

The emperor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew this was an almost-impossible argument to win, but he wanted to at least try. “Wels, _listen_ ,” he insisted for the second time that night. “Last week I told you we’ll be asking for aid from Hermition. They’re magic users! They’ll be able to help, would they not?”

“It’s not aid we need. It’s a place to evacuate.”

 _Like mentor, like protege,_ Ren internally muttered, reminded of the ever-stubborn Kryllyk — a senior Knight responsible for training Wels as the new Captain. _Steel-headed. What_ is _going on down there_?

“If you really want to know,” Wels started, his voice weak — unlike the usual bravado and snark Ren had grown to know and love, “the death’s not the worst part.”

He clutched Ren’s arm, the cold steel digging into Ren’s skin, as if desperate for physical support. “It’s _how_ they died. Suicide, all of them — pulling their hairs out, biting their nails… with jingles and tunes going in and out your ear like mad — _the weasel’s on the table —_ and it’s a matter of time before it’s making _us_ insane as well, Ren. Did Stress say they’re not contagious? That’s because none of the mediums she expected were used. Not air. Not fluids. _Magical jingles._ ”

Ren could only gulp, not even daring to imagine a death by a jingler. “What…”

“Ren, please. _Please_.” Wels’s cracking voice was barely audible. “Just let me out of this place.”

Ren tightened his grip on the desk, his knuckles nearly white from the strain. 

He was their ruler. 

How was he to leave them all to rot? Everything they’d built, everything they knew was falling down. If they left, there would be no last hope for anyone or anything to hang on to, nothing to rebuild from the ashes. 

“Please, your Imperial Majesty.”

But could he save them? Could gold coins and detailed economic plans written in gold ink and tied with gold ribbons save anyone? Ren sighed. He could _feel_ the faint grip on his thread of hope beginning to slack. 

“I’m just a boy, okay?”

 _Children._ Stress had reported almost a third of the deaths were children. _They died laughing_ , she’d said. _Smiles on their face as if frozen in playtime_. If he couldn’t save even the children, what hope was left? Whole villages, whole cities and ports were left to rot with corpses piled as if they were merely dead autumn leaves. 

“And I don’t want to die…”

* * *

_My fair lady..._

“So you’re going to stare out that window sentimentally for five hours or what?”

Wels simply shrugged. _London bridge is broken down..._

There was no questioning who else would bother him during his precious blanking-out time; he could recognise that gravelly voice anywhere. And he was right, for a tall, broad brunette raised his eyebrow at him when Wels turned back, every inch of his green stare judging his behaviour like always. Well, he’s a professional judgmental guy, as Wels would always call it — not caring for Kryllyk's constant corrections that he’s a “mentor”. What even.

“No, Kryllyk,” he replied flatly. _Broken down, broken down._ He rubbed his ears in hopes of silencing the voice, but it only giggled faintly. “I’ll do it for six hours.”

Kryllyk waved away his snark noncommittally. _London bridge is broken down._ He stood up, muttering “get off” before standing next to the Knight — the window-frame couldn’t fit them both. Strangers would expect his small smile to mean joy, or maybe amusement, but Wels could recognize Kryllyk’s mocking demeanor.

“Wow, look at our gorgeous village,” Kryllyk practically sang. “All crystalline and frosty. It’s like the entire window is covered in frozen condensation.”

“Mhm.”

“Okay,” Kryllyk replied.

“Yeah.”

“Anyway, Wels.” He quickly put the flat-toned agreement chain to an end. Kryllyk put an arm round Wels’s shoulder, making him flinch from the force. He pulled Wels with ease to face away from the window and into their office. “I had a talk with Iskall earlier.”

Behind his back, Wels crossed his fingers in reflex. This was not going to be good.

Not after what he’d seen.

“About... what?” he tried to keep his voice level, but Kryllyk’s eyebrow raise alerted him that it had come out no more than a squeak. _Oh well._

He gestured to Wels to follow him, and he did, trying to catch up with what Kryllyk may consider a stroll, yet for him they were closer to a sprint. Curse Kryllyk and his long legs!

In front of him, Kryllyk seemed to be talking about whatever the Renpire’s triumvirate — Ren, Iskall, and Stress — had been up to, but Wels failed to hear any word from him. 

Nothing. 

His mind felt too much like a jumbled mess, to which his reflexes had tried to counter by scrunching his eyebrows — with no success. The pounding headache lingered even as he rubbed his right temple. 

His senses didn’t seem to work the way they were intended to. Usually, while walking down the Renpire’s hallways, flashes of blinding sunlight bounced off the gilded arches and highlighted every little weathered crevice and faint gold vein in the blackstone walls. Nighttime changed nothing; a yellow moonlight would dance like a series of fairy lights over the gold floors. Even the familiar cold was comforting, a chilly atmosphere the Renpire was known for — responsible for their major exporting commodities since their climate was like no other.

Yet all Wels could see was the _same exact_ smile, the bloodied, disturbing smile, as if someone stitched the corners of its lips up to its very eyes.

All he could hear was _laughter_ , high-pitched laughter filled with malice unlike any he’d heard of before; and that stupid song once again. 

_My... fair... lady…_

And all he could feel was _cold,_ which shouldn’t have been surprising considering the naturally cold, foggy climate of the Renpire — yet this one wasn’t one he was used to. The cold pierced, pierced through his steel armour and straight into his skin like little icy needles. _Build it up with wood and clay…_

“So that’s why I’m really salty with Iskall right now.”

Wels stopped in the middle of the hallway, suddenly hyper-aware of the flickering golden shadows dancing around them. Emperor Ren’s office stood at the end of the hall, its gold handle glinting under the chandelier’s glow. “Huh?”

Kryllyk stopped as well, several feet ahead of Wels. “What do you mean ‘huh’?”

“What do you mean ‘what do you mean huh’?”

Before Kryllyk could answer, the door to the emperor’s office slammed open, with Iskall propping the door open with his foot. “Ser Kryllyk,” he addressed, his voice sharp with a polite sarcasm. 

Kryllyk sighed. He crossed his arms and looked his brother in the eye. “Ser Iskall,” he replied, equally sarcastically. Wels began to raise a hand to excuse himself; he had no energy to handle this sibling affair, but Iskall cut him off with a glare. 

“Ser Wels, Ser Kryllyk, please come inside,” Iskall said. Wels and Kryllyk shared a look before stepping inside the office. As Wels passed Iskall, he caught a glimpse of almost what seemed like fear in the guard’s brown eyes before Iskall looked away, closing the door behind them. 

The moment the door clicked shut behind them, Iskall walked over to where Kryllyk ws sitting and jabbed a finger at him. “So you think Ren decided he wanted to leave everyone behind just because? Just for the fun of it?”

Kryllyk groaned, rubbing a hand over his face as he muttered, “Iskall, get over it—”

“I won’t!” Iskall yelled, slamming his palm on the meeting table. Wels nearly jumped ten feet in the air from where he was standing if not for his armour weighing him down. _So he’s going to be involved in this sibling quality time, after all_. 

“This — this stupid _idiot_ — argh!” Iskall tried to articulate his thoughts, yet he was so clouded by rage that nothing came out besides a faint sigh. “You don’t ever bother to see what’s out there, do you? Huh?!” 

Iskall swung his finger to point towards the large windows in the emperor’s study, barely grazing Kryllyk’s nose in the process. “Never took two seconds to look out the _damned_ window and watch what’s going on because — we — all of us — may end up like those people one day, insane, a knife to our necks from our own actions!”

He took a shaky breath, and before Wels could attempt to smooth over the situation, Iskall continued. 

“We’ve tried our best,” he whispered, barely audible. “ _She’s_ tried her best. Nothing. No light at the end of this tunnel.”

“She could’ve tried better,” was what Wels last heard before his mind went jumbled again, shocked from the sudden chaos that spiralled around him. 

Everything he could sense had been so distorted these days. He failed to recognise what’s real and what’s not, which scream was Iskall’s and which cry was Kryllyk’s. Where was Ren; could the Emperor even keep the two siblings from ripping their relationship apart? Was anyone going to clean after their casualties of golden cutleries? Gold, did the gold even matter? 

Blindly, he walked out the door, not even bothering to excuse himself.

The yells and screams drowned away.

Yet something took over its place, messing with Wels’s auditory sense once more. The voice, the voice kept singing, dancing around his mindspace like a circle of little faeries. 

_London Bridge is falling down._

_Falling down, falling down._

* * *

Having visited the Emperor’s office countless times, Iskall thought he would’ve gotten used to the gilded lindenwood arches sloping along the sides of the spacious room, with golden silk curtains swaying with the night breeze. Patches of moonlight highlighted the vibrant floral decor on the floor tiles. Above him, the chandelier flickered — glowing golden.

It was a gorgeous room, but it carried a silent air of emptiness, of cold that never failed to creep up Iskall’s spine every time he entered. It was always a room for two — two desks, two windows, two chandeliers, two lindenwood arches with carved gold asphodels holding two unused lantern chains.

One person always looked so small, so helpless and alone in the office. 

Like His Imperial Majesty.

“Is he joining us, then?” Ren asked upon Iskall's arrival, barely looking up.

Iskall rubbed his aching temples. “No,” he huffed shortly, not caring to elaborate. “Not sure about the Wels boy _—_ he’s probably siding with Kryllyk, though.”

He sighed. “Ren, do we really have to _—_ ” he started, a prominent tremble in his voice _—_ “do we really have to leave? I had to admit, Kryllyk had a good point. We can’t leave the people alone. They need us.”

“Helping them is impossible, Iskall. You’ve seen Stress’s reports.”

“I know, just _—_ ” he groaned, throwing his arms up, “there’s no perfect option, is it? We’re just choosing what’s not worse. I guess the people we had to leave behind was my main concern. Lucy and Nat are too young for the trip, and Stress needed her lab, and Kryllyk and Wels probably don’t even _want_ to save themselves _—_ and the people…”

Ren put an arm around Iskall’s shoulder reassuringly. “Dude, look at me.” He smiled at Iskall, who, had he been _capable_ of showing tears, would probably be sobbing. “Everything’s going to be okay. Those Hermition people would certainly give space for everyone we needed to save, I know they would.”

“That’s confident of you,” Iskall gave half a mirthless laugh, raising an eyebrow disdainfully.

“I remembered what Genny was like,” Ren winked. “His son’s just the same. Even if not, I will _make them_ do as I want them to.”

Iskall frowned at the sheer confidence radiating from the emperor. “Is that really necessary?”

“I love you, my dude,” Ren said, turning solemn at once. “I want the best for you. All of you that's possible for saving. That’s —” he stopped for a second, sighing, “that’s the least I can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no one:  
> wels: life is not daijoubu  
> \- tangled x


End file.
